


The Pattern of Silence Before You Speak

by TobyHooper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobyHooper/pseuds/TobyHooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't talk.  They've never talked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pattern of Silence Before You Speak

When John comes home from Afghanistan Harry gives him her old phone, but he still needs a new number. It takes him ages to figure it all out - there's a number he can call for help, and that's worse than useless. Are they fucking with him? John puts the phone, disconnected and discharged, into the drawer of his desk next to his Sig.

Then one day he gets a letter. It's very thin, and when he pulls it from the envelope it's just got a mobile number written on it. The letter is postmarked from Afghanistan.

That night he goes over to Harry's, and he finally gets the line set up. That night he goes home to his bedsit, and he finally uses his phone.

His hand spasms twice as he taps in the numbers.

"Sholto," a voice on the other end answers.

"Watson."

They don't talk. They've never talked, not even when it was easy to, when they lived on the same continent, when they fought the same war.

They don't talk, and in the silence, he thinks he can hear Afghanistan.

*

John is a little bit drunk and a little bit smitten. Okay, a lot drunk. And, okay, okay, a lot smitten. John would like to know how anyone can watch this man at a crime scene, watch his sharp blue eyes take in everything, watch his full perfect lips explain everything, and not be smitten. 

No, really, he would like to know, because Sherlock Holmes is married to his work and this crush of John's is really inconvenient.

It's for the best, then, that his phone rings. "Ignore it," Sherlock says, knocking his foot against John's thigh where the phone rests in his pocket. It's a casual touch, lazy and presumptuous, but John finds it thrilling. 

He wants to stroke that foot, or maybe tickle it. His hand wavers as he reaches into his pocket. Then he sees who's calling.

"I have to take this."

He presses 'accept' as he stumbles upright. The stairs seem unmanageable, so he goes into the bathroom. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights, just slips down to the floor, one hand caressing the cool tile, the other pressing the phone to his ear.

Why is James calling? What's happened? Has anything happened? Maybe he's just lonely, missing John. Regretting. If so, he's got no one to blame but himself. It was his choice, not John's. Not John's. No one to blame but himself and his damn regulations.

 _Fuck_ , thinks John, shaking his head. He hopes James didn't hear his anger somehow. It's not James he's angry at. It's not Sherlock either.

He takes a long drink of water from the bathroom faucet, and spends the next ten minutes breathing comfort at James across the miles, until James finally hangs up.

*

After the - 

Once Sherlock has -

John can't use his phone. It's impossible, everything reminds him of Sherlock. Baker Street, obviously, and Mrs. Hudson, but also the police, hospitals, violin music, long black cars and CCTV cameras, people with pet hair on their clothes, the color pink, bedsheets, ashtrays, graffiti, the night sky and the smell of chlorine. And the headlines. The headlines screaming out 'SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS'. Those remind him of Sherlock too.

But the phone is the worst. People keep calling him on it, trying to give him their condolences. Overlaid with their voices he hears Sherlock's. "I'm so sorry," they say. "It's a magic trick. He's in a better place. Nobody could be that clever."

After a while he just stops answering. He stops doing much of anything. He'd been going to the surgery, pushing himself forward, letting adrenaline carry him, but it was only a matter of time before it wore off and the shock took over. He gives in. He starts bleeding out.

Three weeks after Sherlock jumped, one week after he quit the surgery, four days after he last ate, he gets another phone call.

He lets it go once. He lets it ring out again. But the third time he answers it.

Sherlock's voice echoes in the unbroken silence. He can't hear James at all, or Afghanistan. Just Sherlock.

"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note?"

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, John."

The words repeat until they become slurred, until they are drowned out at last not by James but by John, by the ragged, painful sound of his own breathing and the sobs that escape half-muffled by a clenched fist.

He stays on the line until those too are gone, and all he can hear is James again.

*

John reads the newspapers, and reaches for his phone. 

James doesn't pick up. It's happened before, several times; James is a busy man, and he has obligations. What are his obligations now, though? Physical therapy? Cooperating with the investigation?

He tries again that night, and the next morning. John's not sure what to do, not sure what he can do, but he's sure it can't be nothing. He will not see another friend shattered by guilt and public opinion. He will not watch James fall from too far away to stop him.

They've never texted before. It feels intrusive but he does it anyway.

**James**

**I'm worried about you**

**You dont need to talk to me, you know that**

**But I need to know you won't hurt yourself**

**I care about you**

**So much**

**If I lost you too I dont think I would survive it**

**Please call**

**Or at least, promise me that if you're thinking  
about it, you'll tell me**

**Promise you'll at least tell me first**

**Please James**

There is no answer for a long time. John falls asleep staring at his phone, and when it finally pings with a text, he startles awake and grabs at it. The response is short, but it is everything.

**I promise. JS**

It rings soon after. John curls up on the sofa, the phone pressed against his ear, and savors the silence.

*

There's no one John can talk to.

His wife is a liar and an assassin. A murderer of best friends. She shot _Sherlock_.

But he can't talk to Sherlock either. When he does, Sherlock says abominable things about forgiving Mary, about going back to Mary. About Mary having saved his life. He's a liar, too, and he's never going to trust John, is he? Not when it matters.

Molly's in the dark this time. Greg, too. Not that he'd know what to say to them. It's not the kind of thing you complain about over a pint.

Mycroft knows everything, John's sure, but he's not about to cry on Mycroft Holmes' shoulder.

There's no one John can talk to, so in the end, he doesn't.

He calls James instead.

*

John's phone rings on the three year anniversary of James' last mission in Afghanistan. 

He's surprised - James has been calling less since he started therapy last year, and hasn't rung once since he started dating that pastor six months ago. But some nights, he supposes, will always be hard.

He brings the phone upstairs into the nursery, where Rachel is sleeping. Her soft little breath sounds mingle with James' harsher ones. 

John watches Rachel's chest rise and fall, and he thinks at James, but does not say:

_I know about guilt. And regret. I have scars on my body too. But everyone gets scars if they live long enough. It's not about trying to become whole again. It's about... it's about..._

The nursery door swings open a few centimeters.

John gets up, mindful both of Rachel sleeping and of James on the end of the line. He steps out into the hallway and mouths to Sherlock that he'll come to bed soon. Sherlock presses a quiet kiss to John's temple and disappears back down the stairs.

John returns to the darkness of the nursery. 

_It's about scabs and clotting factors,_ he thinks. _Controlling your tremors. Learning to walk again. Letting someone hold you again._

In the crib, Rachel stirs and then cries. He picks her up and brings her back to his chair. He presses the phone between his ear and his shoulder and he rocks her, over and over, as she weeps. "It's okay," he whispers to her. "It's going to be okay. It's okay. I love you. It's okay."

There is silence over the connection, as there always is. 

But when the call ends James says, "Good night, John."

And John replies, "Good night, James."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for/inspired by Vanetti. Also possibly by a random tumblr post, because I feel like this was someone else's headcanon first. (If it's you, comment and I'll add a link to you.)
> 
> The title is from Silence by Langston Hughes:
> 
>    
> I catch the pattern  
> Of your silence  
> Before you speak
> 
>    
> I do not need  
> To hear a word.
> 
>    
> In your silence  
> Every tone I seek  
> Is heard.


End file.
